


Quartz Fire

by Saerzion



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Tragedy, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saerzion/pseuds/Saerzion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the revered Elder of the East Coast Brotherhood, Arthur Maxson guides with a ruthless hand, a linear vision, and a severed heart. But from the moment he meets the Sole Survivor, a distant trace of the lost returns. They walk the line to the shackles that bind them, adrift in flames between quartz and steel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He stood as the living embodiment of the Brotherhood's core values, built by his own hands into the man his birthright decreed. During the ten years of his ascent from lowly squire to respected Elder, he had shaped his image into that of a leader—a beacon that inspired others to follow. His people looked to him for validation and guidance, unmindful of his youthful age in light of his proven skills. No other individual shared his credentials, his drive, or his vision.

For his very soul was forged from eternal steel.

And yet, for one perched so high on the metallic pedestal, his gaze sometimes shifted from the horizon to the ground. He often caught himself watching the shine of golden blonde hair crossing the airport below. The Brotherhood's newest knight carried out her assignments diligently and without hesitation, and not a day went by where she failed to report in. She opted to wear the T-45 power armor instead of the newer T-60, a choice that struck him as both peculiar and disquieting.

Whenever she came in for new orders, he conducted himself with utmost decorum. But even as his outward composure remained stern and collected, everything inside grew more and more affected by her appearance. She sported defined Anglo-Saxon features, arguably generic, but also familiar in their structure. Icy blue eyes lured him in every time he met them, cool in expression and shrouded in mystery. He never gave any indication that he considered her different from the other knights, but he found himself assigning her missions meant for more seasoned officers, if only to ensure her return to the command deck when she completed the tasks.

For her part, she followed through with each order and brought back more than satisfactory results. He considered her proficiencies and abilities, aware of the frequent comparisons he drew. She impressed him, he admitted. And with every successful job she relayed back, the stalwart line he had set began to dissolve.

Her investment in locating the Institute aided greatly in her work for the Brotherhood, but she never divulged the reasons that served as her motivation. He started giving her more leeway to reach her objectives, including granting permission for her temporary liaisons with the Railroad. Although his instincts protested his own confidence in her loyalty, her clear appreciation for his trust put the internal argument to rest. The stark resemblances in her smile and posture influenced his logic, he knew, and he was the first to call himself out on his compromised wisdom in matters that concerned her.

Even in the evenings, she sometimes filled his thoughts. During these times in the privacy of his quarters, he opened the locked drawer of his desk and produced a small picture frame, spending the better part of an hour merely gazing at the preserved photo. The more he tied the perceived connections together, the more he entertained the idea that perhaps something lost had been regained. A bit of an unfair notion to all parties, but her existence threw a significant part of his mind into disarray.

As the weeks passed, and she spent more time on the Prydwen, he started to catch her peering at him in return. Around the main deck, across the docking stations, or through the open door of his quarters, their eyes often met. Word around the ship informed him that she had been asking about his background and the Brotherhood's history. He attempted to disregard the new shade of interest in her stare, intending to brief her on the Brotherhood's standard of professionalism but unable to completely dismiss his own responsibility in this development. And although she said nothing of it through her lips, her gaze spoke of a thousand different indecipherable facets.

The day she managed to infiltrate the Institute, he couldn't remember experiencing a stronger sense of pride for one of his soldiers. He did question her decision to approach a different faction for help in building the teleporter, as the Brotherhood possessed full capabilities to construct such a device. Still, considering she reported in the moment she returned, he saw no reason to pursue the matter further. More doors had opened, and vital missions loomed ahead.

However, something within her had changed.

Her face now bore a grim shadow, blue eyes darkened by some unspoken burden. He refrained from prying into her personal affairs, but his curiosity increased with every second spent studying her troubled demeanor. Her field performance suffered little, but even he could feel the turmoil she harbored inside.

Then, days after her initial visit to the Institute, she came to him in the command deck unannounced.

"Elder Maxson, could I have a word?"

Arthur turned from his standard position in front of the glass panes overlooking the dusk-colored Commonwealth, donning the stoic mantle of the Brotherhood leader even as his full attention centered on her. "What is it, knight?"

She ambled toward him, garbed in the Brotherhood uniform and combat armor instead of her usual T-45 suit. "They say a man named Roger Maxson founded the Brotherhood of Steel, and you happen to be the last of his descendents."

He raised an eyebrow, analyzing her tone. "That's correct. What of it?" _What is it you really want to say?_

She bit her lip and glanced toward the floor. "So… you know exactly who you are. Your place in time and in the familial line. Yours is a straightforward lineage. I'm sure you have your share of stresses and problems, but your chronology isn't one of them."

Confusion overtook his bearing, but he disguised it beneath an impatient and annoyed veneer. "Knight, I'm a very busy man. Is there a point to this conversation?"

Her line of sight snapped back to his face, and in the flicker of the lights, a sheen of unshed tears glimmered. "You might have noticed something amiss with me since I returned from the Institute. The truth is, I've learned that my life is going through an endless upheaval. I woke up months ago in Vault 111 and stepped into this world after having been frozen in cryosleep for over two hundred years. _Two centuries_ , Elder."

His mask slipped as he registered her words. "You… excuse me, what?"

"There's a reason I've been so intent to hunt down the Institute. Sixty years ago, they came into the Vault, murdered my husband, and kidnapped my infant son. I witnessed it all, trapped in my pod, helpless to stop any of it. They re-froze me like some experimental specimen. When I was finally freed this past October, I had only one goal: I needed to find my son. Everything I've done since then, I've done for him. For the chance to find my child and take him back." She laughed then, a bitter sound of anger and grief. "Well, I found him. He was there to greet me at the Institute."

Arthur stared hard at her, trying to discern the source of her quandary. "And yet something plagues you."

"I lost a baby, and I found a sixty-year-old man. A man who grew up never knowing his parents, never learning love and compassion. The director of the Institute." She stepped toward him, looking lost, pleading. "What am I supposed to do, Elder? Your enemy is my son."

He drew in a sharp breath, at once understanding the full extent of her predicament. Assuming her story was true—and he found himself believing it—she now posed a viable hazard. While he had never doubted her allegiance prior to this, the knowledge that she had blood ties to the Brotherhood's primary foe left him apprehensive. Despite the complexity of the situation, his views remained locked in black and white.

"He's… twice my physical age," she went on, voice breaking. "Our chronology, our relationship, our lives… all of it is ruined. I don't even know what I—"

"From where I'm standing, knight, you still have only two options," Arthur told her, his spine straight and firm as he regarded her solemnly. "Stay devoted to the Brotherhood and continue fighting for our cause—or defect and, depending on whom you subsequently ally with, become an enemy target."

She blinked at him, clear shock and dismay replacing her bereavement. "Is this an ultimatum?"

"It is the reality of your circumstances. The choice is yours. I trust you'll pick the correct one."

A few seconds of silence went by.

She drew herself to her full height, something closing off in her countenance. "I will, Elder."

x-x-x-x-x

No other complications arose for several more weeks.

He watched for any lingering effects of the conversation, but if anything, she accomplished her assignments quicker and more efficiently than ever. He saw the resolve in her manner, recognizing the one-track mentality of a woman carrying the world on her shoulders. Whatever solution she had found for her dilemma, it left a sense of ambiguity in the air. He kept a vigilant eye on her activities both on and off the Prydwen, but the familiar way she conducted herself brought about memories of a gilded past.

He had seen that focus before, the determination and pride that comprised her character. Echoes of yesteryear coiled around them, and despite the implausibility, he saw her in another setting, in a different position, but under the same banner. She continued to return his gaze, never speaking of whatever connection sparked between them. They sized each other up for days on end, keeping their observations to themselves as the link grew into near-tangibility.

And then came the M7-97 fiasco.

Shock and betrayal consumed him above all others in the Brotherhood. It gnawed away at his temperament, serving as a reminder that even he failed at identifying the best-constructed of the Institute synths. The shattered picture of Paladin Danse as one of his top field officers plagued him in the subsequent days. He checked and double-checked the accuracy of the reports at least a dozen times, disappointed when their verities held up to critical inspection. When he came to terms that there had never been a "Paladin Danse"—that only M7-97 existed all along—he made one of the most difficult decisions of his career.

And judging by the look on her face when he heaved the full responsibility of Danse's inevitable demise to her, he could already tell she considered the mission impossible.

"I can't," she told him in an unsteady voice.

"You _will_ ," he all but growled, a considerable amount of his aggression aimed at himself. "This is a direct order, knight. No matter what history he has with the Brotherhood of Steel—and with you—he must be eliminated. An exception would only show the Brotherhood as weak. And weakness, especially for a military faction guided by my hand, is the most unacceptable thing of all."

She shook her head, the compassion in her expression only twisting his gut even more. "The world operates in shades, not in extremes. I don't know his story, but I intend to find out."

"Your pre-War attitude is the one facet that holds you back, knight," Arthur barked. "This isn't the world you left behind. There is no longer any room for an idealistic moral spectrum. In this society, you are strong or you are weak. You hold firm or you cave in. You live or you die. There is no in-between. And there will be no debating this. Hunt down Danse and execute him. I won't repeat the order again."

In a movement so subtle he almost missed it, she quirked an eyebrow and peered at him as if he would rue this moment in days to come.

"As you wish, Elder Maxson."

Defiance disguised under acquiescence.

He knew it well.

x-x-x-x-x

When she tracked down Danse's whereabouts within the span of two days, he followed her by vertibird to the location of an old bunker. As he waited in the aircraft, vision glued to the entrance through which she had disappeared, he could only hope she did the right thing. However, the longer the evening stretched on, the more his instincts clawed at him in warning. And as soon as the bunker door swung open to reveal two people walking out instead of one, he completely snapped.

The confrontation reached explosive proportions. In a flash, he appeared in their path, cornering them under the spotlights of the bunker's exterior. Arguments flew back and forth between her and himself while the subject in question stood gawking from the sidelines. Arthur condemned her nerve, her lapse in judgment. And yet she continued to insist on Danse's survival, much to his everlasting ire.

" _It_ is the embodiment of everything mankind has done wrong," he snarled. "It is a danger. A weapon. How has this fact not gotten through to you?"

"He's a thinking, feeling, intelligent person," she retorted in her first outward display of impassioned emotion. "He's killed for you, bled for you, put his life on the line countless times for you."

"Even now, if you asked me, I'd still be willing to serve you," Danse added, stepping closer to her in a gesture that didn't escape Arthur's notice. "It's true, I had my mind erased once to free myself from the Institute's grasp. But what did I do when I was granted a new start? I chose to join the ranks of Steel. This wasn't Institute programming, it was a choice I made on my own. No matter what you think of synths, I am _not_ a traitor to you or the Brotherhood."

Arthur glowered at both of them, further infuriated by their inability to understand the error in their perspectives. "You are utterly deluded if you believe synths—or mutants, or ghouls—are equal to humans. You're nothing but a tool, Danse. An artificial, man-shaped construction built to simulate human behavior. There is no alternative outcome here. You must be destroyed."

"Why?" she cut in, the outrage prominent in every inch of her frame.

"Because it is science that has overstepped its bounds. Take away the components that make it look like a man. In the end, it's only a machine."

"And if you're supposed to be such a superior human, start acting like one," she fired back, blue irises ablaze with a ferocity he'd seen in only one other individual. "Life doesn't run on a binary scale. There _is_ a spectrum whether you like it or not, Maxson. If you want to prove you're more human than a synth is, learn the concept of mercy. Because without it, you're no better than any other unfeeling robot walking the Wastes."

Arthur went very still. He maintained his glare, but processed her statements. "Is your stubbornness a product of your misguided attachment to this thing's creator?"

She lifted her chin, eyes flashing with open challenge. "That isn't it. I'm being stubborn about this because I—"

She cut herself off, but the insinuation resonated between them, catching both men off-guard. Arthur pressed his lips together, part of his chest going cold. One glance at Danse's stunned but elated countenance told him that the sentiment was reciprocated. All at once, the months leading up to this went up in smoke. Arthur regarded her somberly, remembering that the connection resided only in his head. Even so, he still found it impossible to shake off. If he killed Danse now, he would lose her as well.

Faced with such a situation, he drafted one acceptable solution.

"…I see. So your stance is of a personal nature, then," Arthur remarked. Turning to Danse, he went on, "Fine. Danse, as far as I'm concerned, you're dead. You were pursued and slain by this Brotherhood knight, and your remains were incinerated. From this day forward, you are forbidden to set foot on the Prydwen, or speak to anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel."

The former paladin exhaled in relief and sent him a grateful look. "I can live with that. Thank you for believing in me, Arthur."

"Listen again, synth. You will not speak to or meet with _anyone_ from the Brotherhood of Steel. That includes _her_ ," Arthur rumbled, narrowing his eyes when both individuals in front of him gave a start.

She opened her mouth, but it took a few tries for her to emit a sound. "What?"

He swept out an arm, fighting back the smirk that pulled at the corners of his lips. "You heard me. If either of you chooses to ignore my warning and communicate after tonight, know that Danse will be fired upon immediately."

As they gaped at him, speechless, he pivoted on his heel and made his way back to the vertibird.

Facing the darkness, he allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Is that merciful enough for you, knight?"


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours crawled by in the aftermath of the altercation.

He leaned forward on his hands over the railing of the Prydwen's command deck, peering at his own reflection in the large glass windows. Against the night sky outside, his image glowed in translucent amber from the lights behind him. He noted the hard glint in his gaze, the early aging in his features. Ever since taking his place as the commander of this division of the Brotherhood of Steel, he had never second-guessed his leadership decisions. The Brotherhood's accomplishments under his rule spoke of his excellence as its leader. When he made a call, he did so with utmost confidence in the results. For the majority of his tenure, none questioned him because none needed to.

However…

He reached up and grasped the second set of holotags hanging from his neck underneath his uniform.

_How different would everything have been if you had lived?_

At that moment, the main door swung open. He recognized the cadence of her power armor's footsteps reverberating through the otherwise empty command deck. His earlier dismissal of the airship's night crew ensured a discussion free of interruptions. The distant set of the stars outside established the time as an hour before dawn. As she came to a stop several paces away, he rotated toward her and waited expectantly, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise at the sight of her in a set of T-60 power armor.

Danse's confiscated suit.

"I'd like to speak with you, Elder Maxson," she stated through the mouthpiece of the helmet, the practiced neutrality evident in her level voice.

He clasped his hands behind him and squared his shoulders. "Speak then, knight."

A rush of air sounded from the back of the T-60 as she released the rear hatch of the power armor and opened it to step out. Her hands came up to remove the helmet as she exited the suit, her long blonde hair tumbling out in loose curls over her simple white tank top. Long legs came into view when she rounded the suit, her tattered tan-colored shorts barely covering her assets. The urge to berate her for her unprofessional attire dissipated when she set down the helmet and came to stand directly in front of him. He struggled to maintain his bearing as he took in the most staggering instance of her physical resemblance to date. The way her tresses framed her jaw sent him back more than ten years. The athletic figure, the fair complexion, the facial lines, even some of the agitated mannerisms—all present.

Her eyes, on the other hand, lacked all signs of the warmth he still held onto in his memories.

"With all due respect, that last stipulation you gave to Danse seemed rather petty," she said, still carrying herself like a soldier despite her immodest appearance. "I already know his circumstances and what he really is, and you and I both know I would never divulge any inklings of his survival around the Brotherhood. What was the point of forbidding contact between him and myself?"

None questioned Arthur on his rulings as Elder.

None except for her.

"If you were to remain in contact with him, you would be a liability to the Brotherhood and to yourself," he declared. "I'm taking no chances. You're too valuable a soldier and asset to risk, paladin."

She froze. "Paladin?"

"Danse's departure left the position vacant. It is only fitting that you take his place," Arthur told her, motioning toward the T-60. "You've already helped yourself to his power armor. Treat it as more than a mere memento. Consider it a reward that comes with the rank."

Her brow creased as she frowned at him. "I'd like to decline the promotion if you would lift the ban on my association with him."

Arthur took one step toward her, using his larger frame to tower over hers. "No. Take the position or not. My orders are final."

She glared at him, seeming unfazed by the difference in their heights. "You're an impossible man to reason with, Arthur Maxson. I've done my duty to the Brotherhood, even set a lot of my own ethics aside to comply with yours. I feel that I've earned more than just one favor. I'm thankful that you spared him, but forbidding me from seeing him was unnecessary. You call that a military order? It was the decree of a spiteful child."

A boiling force surged through his veins at once. Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice to a dangerous timbre. " _What_ did you say to me?"

"Your field and combat experience are eons above all others', but in reality, you're still a twenty-year-old young man barely out of his teen years. In matters like this, I can read you like a book," she remarked, lifting a bold hand to rest on the lapels of his battlecoat. "Why do you hate the thought of me being in contact with him? Why have you watched my every move ever since I joined your faction?"

His justified anger screeched to a halt when she brazenly ran her fingers over his torso. He seized her wrist, shoving it away as he felt an unfamiliar and unwelcome twinge of alarm. "That's enough, paladin. You're over the line."

She ignored his tone and pressed herself against him, her smile tantalizing, but her eyes stone cold. "I'm only wondering, Maxson. Is this what you want?"

It took every ounce of self-control to keep his poker face in check when she violated all protocols and reached down to cup him between his legs. " _Paladin_ —"

"No one's here tonight. Curious."

"Enough," he ground out through clenched teeth, although his body disobeyed his brain when the heat flared in his core. "Have you completely forgotten whom you're speaking to and making advances on? You've not only broken every single regulation, you've obliterated them. Back off now, and I might overlook your largely inappropriate behavior."

_Not right. Not like this. The coldness in her gaze…_

She desisted at once, looking more perturbed than remorseful. "I… read it wrong? But all the signs—"

" _I am the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel_ ," he boomed, causing her to jump back. "What kind of thirsty lowlife cretin do you take me for? Your insubordination and disrespect are a disgrace to this organization. I will only tolerate so much, and you are severely testing my patience."

His righteous indignation rang through the space, but deep inside, his self-restraint had reached its limits. From her proximity, he had caught her scent. It enticed him, beckoned to him. A man of his stature could have any woman he wanted, provided that he even had the time to contemplate such things. But here, with her…

It was far too complicated to form into coherent thought.

She inclined her head, shame finally seeping across her visage. "My apologies, then, Elder. I misjudged the signals. Forgive the insult to your character. I was testing a suspicion, and I see I was incorrect."

He nodded, ignoring his racing pulse beneath his sternum. "Accepted. We will move on from this. Take your place as paladin and continue to serve the Brotherhood. I trust you won't disappoint me—or repeat this misconduct—again."

"That's fair. Just… one thing." She strode up to him again, taking his face in her hands. Before he could protest, she stood on her tiptoes and placed a whisper of a kiss on his cheek. "Don't ask me to explain," she murmured as she drew back. "It's just that time was never on our side."

He held still as she pulled away, his mind rapidly processing that last sentence. _Time. From before. A waking dream. The meaning—I can detect it. She's referring to back then. Can't be. It's not feasible, but she…_

His fingers curled around her wrist again, this time tugging her back toward him. Gripping her shoulder with his other hand, he forced her eye contact by holding her mere inches away. "Tell me one thing," he said. "For a woman in love with a synthetic man, your actions imply a different persuasion. Which is it?"

She peered at him, features set in an unreadable expression. "You've guessed it, then. But whatever this is between us, it predates Danse. Tell me you don't sense it. I'm willing to hear a good lie."

He searched her face, catching a glimpse of the woman behind the cool exterior. When the last of his resolve crumbled, he cast logic to the wind and yanked her to him. "I will not lie to you."

His lips fell upon her throat as he curled a fist into her long hair and pulled her head back. She issued a noise of surprise, but then wrapped her arms around his waist under his coat, feeling around for the buckles to undo his uniform bodysuit. Her skin felt hot to the touch, sweet against his mouth as his teeth grazed the flesh of her neck. The millions of thoughts normally running through his mind faded into the blackness as pure instinct took over his consciousness. He had dreamt of this for so long, so fervently.

Mesmerized as he was in the moment, he became more than willing to forsake reality.

As soon as she undid the lower half of his bodysuit and pulled it down, he sprung free, hard and ready. Although a sense of urgency surrounded them, he delayed the inevitable by pinning her against the rails in front of the windows, pressing himself against her and listening to her impatient huffs as his fingers memorized her curves. She grasped his waist, whispered oaths into his chest when he continued to stall and take his time familiarizing himself with her body. Perfection didn't exist, but physically, she was close to it. He allowed himself a second to close his eyes, pretend this was their second chance, their way of making up for lost time.

Her shorts and underwear dropped to her ankles when she ran out of patience, but when she grabbed his erection and tried to guide him into her, he moved her hand aside and brought his fingers to her heated entrance. She went rigid at once, drawing back a little to gaze up at him. He had no idea what expression his features reflected, but a fog had entered his head, and he operated on pure instinct from this point on.

One digit slid into her, and she issued a soft moan as he stilled it there, the warmth encompassing. He felt her swollen and wet with need, the sensation leaving him to wonder how long she had wanted this from him. He tested it, sliding a second finger into her, and then a third, watching her reaction all the while. Rapture overtook her countenance, and her grip on him tightened as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out of her. Four proved too much, as she gasped in discomfort when he tried. Although the sound only aroused him further, he heeded her sultry murmur to ease up.

As she used the rails to support herself, he pushed her legs farther apart and explored her depths. He tested the right angles, the right rhythm, using the euphoric look on her face to gauge what worked best, all while battling his own clambering lust. He had waited all this time—he wanted to savor the experience. He wanted to do it right. He wanted to—

"Arthur," she suddenly growled, clamping onto his hand to stop him when she appeared near the edge. "If you're going to be inside me, I had something else in mind."

Well. Even with that insubordinate tone, he could certainly oblige.

Communicating solely through touch, he withdrew his hand and spun her around, leaning her forward over the rail as he lined himself up from behind. She pushed her backside against him, insistent rather than willing. Then, in a moment of no return, he grabbed hold of her hips and thrusted into her.

His breath came out in a long hiss as she stifled a cry. She was searing around him, enveloping, maddening. He tried to hold himself back, moving in and out of her steadily to ward off his climax. But that golden blonde hair, that throaty voice, that toned figure, those fierce blue eyes, this dream that had phased into reality…

He didn't last long at all.

"Sarah," he called out in a strained voice as he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. A dozen flashes of light filled his vision as he spilled into her, his grip bruising her skin while he rode out the waves of his climax.

When he regained his senses, he felt the stiffness in her frame, and he slid out of her abruptly, mixed emotions gathering in his chest.

She straightened and turned to stare at him from the corner of her eye, all passion gone, the iciness back tenfold. "My name isn't Sarah."

And with that sentence, the illusion shattered at once.

He fixed his attire so he was decent again, but nothing came to mind to say in response to the chill in her words.

"You don't even know my name, do you?"

Arthur managed a displeased scowl, but he still refrained from answering when a glimpse of pain darted across her features.

"It's all right. Roger never knew it, either. Didn't matter how long I was his best JAG officer before I went civilian," she muttered, donning her clothes and keeping her eyes averted. "You Maxsons haven't changed."

He froze. _Roger… Maxson?_

Combing her fingers through her tousled hair, she regained her composure and looked him dead in the eye. "You and I were both thinking of other people, I guess. Well, this just confirms it. Second chances are a farce."

He found his voice when she strode past him. "Paladin—"

"My name is Nora," she said without looking back. "You can keep that paladin rank, Elder. I prefer 'lieutenant' myself."

x-x-x-x-x

Arthur peered down at the picture frame in his hands, his thumb tracing over the eternally preserved image of Sarah Lyons's face. He had hoped to turn back time, reach for what was never there, delude himself into thinking it wasn't too late. It all came to nothing. Sarah had been the ideal in his mind for so long that he had gone so far as to believe she had returned in another form. He had seen only the similarities, the mirrored image, the false reincarnation. Through all of it, he had completely missed seeing Nora as her own person. The resemblance was uncanny, but the souls had never been the same. If he'd only realized this sooner, maybe Nora would have chosen another path.

Maybe it wouldn't have come to this.

"Elder Maxson, the Institute has invaded Boston Airport, and the synths are attempting to reprogram Liberty Prime," one of the knights called from the doorway of his open quarters.

Arthur gave a mere nod and replaced the picture frame in his drawer, remaining calm, grim, unwilling to give any hint to the thundering in his chest. "And the deserter?"

A brief pause. "She's leading the operation. The scribes report that she's at the top of the ramparts. She's… wearing some kind of armor made of quartz. Even with the back and forth incineration between both sides, nothing can touch her."

He nodded again, squaring his shoulders. He made a decision then; possibly his last. Striding to the trunk near the far wall, he seized the gatling laser and rotated to the exit. The enemy had come. Among them, a wasted chance served as their leader. She could have been so much more to the Brotherhood—to him. But he had a hand in this outcome, and now he must reap what he had sown. If he fell in this battle, a reunion with Sarah Lyons possibly awaited him in the afterlife. However…

Elder Arthur Maxson had no intention of tasting death tonight.

"Quartz or not, she's a traitor, and the fire will overwhelm her," he declared, marching forward as the last vestiges of his humanity drifted away. "She chose to go to war against steel. We are _forged_ in flames."


End file.
